


How it Works

by Westgate (Harkpad)



Series: Scenes From the Aftermath [2]
Category: Avengers, Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Drug Use, M/M, Post-Battle of New York
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 08:04:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2060412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harkpad/pseuds/Westgate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha slips into Clint's room to find Phil there, alive. He's grateful that she doesn't seem angry, and they turn their attention to Clint, who's not doing well after it's all said and done. A sequel to "Stuck."</p>
            </blockquote>





	How it Works

**Author's Note:**

> So I decided to make a little series of scenes. No plot is forthcoming. Just scenes from immediately after the battle. Some will be connected and some won't. This particular scene does come immediately after "Stuck."

Clint’s hand sits limp in his, a little bit damp from the sweat that seems to be running on an open valve right now, and his eyes are half-lidded. Phil knows Clint can’t sleep, but he’s not _really_ awake either; he’s caught in a haze that Phil wishes he could wipe away with the crisp handkerchief in his suit pocket.

Natasha slips in and sits in the chair next to Phil, faces him with a diamond-sharp gaze, and says nothing.

He resists sighing outwardly and meets her eyes, relishing in their clarity, her pale green a sharp contrast to Clint’s cloudy, almost colorless blue. He’s always thought of Natasha’s eyes like a sunlit prairie of swaying green grass, calming beauty and nearly as vast. He lets his eyes trace her face, noting a few cuts, one butterfly bandage near her ear, a smudge of grease that medical missed when they were cleaning her up. He drifts down to her shoulders, noting an unusual line of tension, the straightness of her back belying her usual grace. He looks back up at her and she cocks her head to the side a fraction.

“What did you do?” She asks, and his heart breaks a little at the caution in her voice.

“I tried out one of the LMD’s without permission. Fury didn’t lie – he thought I was dead.” It seems important to Phil that the others didn’t blame Fury for any of the grief Phil caused.

She reaches out to him then, settles her hand on his arm, and brushes it gently before putting her hand on his cheek and finally giving him a small smile. Some of the tension in her back unwinds and she caresses his chin with her thumb. He leans into her touch, the soft skin of her hands feeling like a salve to invisible wounds.

“I’m sor—“ he begins, but she cuts him off with her thumb, shakes her head.

“You’re here. He’s alive. I’m alive and we’re going to work through this together, like we always do.”

She looks over at Clint and keeps one hand on Phil’s thigh as she leans forward and settles her other hand on top of Phil’s hand covering Clint’s.

“Fury said you all fought well together.”

“Yes. He used your trading cards to motivate Stark and Rogers. Not that he really needed to, but it worked. Everyone bought in, at least for the battle.”

“You should rest,” he says.

“Here. We’ll all rest here.”

He is glad that she stays. It’s familiar, a reminder of post-mission bedside vigils before things got so complicated. Card games across the thin med bay blankets, sneaking in pizza for Clint, doughnuts for Phil, gummy bears for Natasha. All of them running sarcastic commentary on whatever bad TV they could find on the tissue box-sized television, turning it off and dimming the lights to get whoever needed it to sleep. Sometimes it felt to Phil like they’d been doing this for eternity together.

Clint’s eyelids flutter and he manages to open them and focus on Natasha. She runs her hand up and down his arm and Phil sees Clint’s eyes drift down and watch it quietly for a minute.

“Safe,” she whispers to him, but Phil thinks she’s saying it for all of them. “We’re safe.”

“Lots of coke, Tasha,” Clint says, looking back up at her. “Bastard said our needs were pittance – fucking used the word _pittance_ , the asshole. This crash is a bad one.”

She sifts her fingers through his damp hair and nods. Phil knows she’s cataloguing the fact that Clint remembers things Loki said, just as he is. Neither of them missed the way Clint spat Loki’s name, either.

“Coke and killing,” Clint mutters, shaking his head and dropping his chin to his chest. “Coke and a fuck-ton of killing. Soooo much killing.”

“Clint,” Phil protests, but he protests weakly because he knows it’s true, and Clint is right in a matter-of-fact way and soon they’ll all have to deal with the fallout from that. Natasha knows enough to stay quiet and refuse to acknowledge it. She only ever acknowledges things once she can actually deal with them; it’s part of her skill set.

Clint closes his eyes all the way and sucks in a shaky breath and blows his cheeks out to let it go.

Now Phil and Natasha sit vigil with Clint and about an hour later, as Phil is starting to be happy about Clint’s heart rate dropping closer to normal, Clint screams. It’s a harsh, razorblade scream that goes on forever, and Clint thrashes as Phil leaps up and tries to hold the hand with the IV in place. Natasha climbs onto Clint’s legs and pushes two hands against his chest, pressing him back to the bed. Clint snaps his eyes open at her touch and he screams “No, no, no, no, no, no!” again and again and again.

Phil has a flash of worry that he will be hearing that plea in his own nightmares from now on.

Dr. Henley rushes in but she lets Phil and Natasha handle the scene for now.

It takes a full two minutes before Clint shifts to ragged breathing and sags back limply against the pillow. Now even his gown is soaked with sweat and Phil sees him shiver as his eyes clear and he realizes where he is again.

“You’re going to be okay, Clint,” Phil says, and he pulls a blanket from the windowsill behind him and spreads it over Clint. He tucks the edges around Clint’s side as Clint grabs the top and pulls it to his chin, clinging to it like a child. He’s breathing heavily through his nose, but he nods at Phil and glances over at the doctor.

“I’m gonna be okay,” he parrots to Henley, and Dr. Henley nods and approaches.

“Yes, Clint,” she says, and her voice reminds Phil of honey poured from a glass jar, slow and deliberate with a tinge of a southern accent. “I’m going to get some readings and one more blood sample, so hopefully we can give you something to help you rest soon.”

“Noooo, no, no, no drugs, doc,” Clint says through clenched teeth.

“Light sedative, Agent,” Dr. Henley clarifies, her voice hardening a bit. “Nothing to make you lose control.”

Apparently she’d been comparing notes with Dr. Manzini in Psych already, Phil thinks.

Clint doesn’t draw the distinction. “No. No drugs. Phil,” he says, drawing Phil’s name out and pleading in a way Clint doesn’t do when anyone but Phil or Natasha are around.

“Let’s take one step at a time,” Phil says, hoping that a little time will bring Clint a little perspective. “Let them run their blood test, okay?”

Clint looks over at Natasha, who has been watching the exchange carefully. “Nat?” he asks, and Phil hears the ‘back me up here, please’ in his tone.

She just shakes her head and says, “Do what Phil says for now.” She shoots Phil a look that says, ‘we have to talk and get on the same page, you know.’

Phil nods in agreement. Things have always been that way between them, from the beginning. Two working to take care of one is their standard equation and this may be what saves them, now.

Clint flat-out sulks while Dr. Henley’s assistant comes in and takes a small blood draw; he glares daggers into the poor man’s head as it’s bent over his arm. But he doesn’t fight it outright, doesn’t growl, so Phil counts it as a win.

When the doctors leave, Clint is still breathing a little too heavy, still sweating, and still clenching the blanket to his chin like it might cover up what he’s afraid of showing to Phil and Natasha. Phil sits at the edge of the bed and pulls one of Clint’s hands down gently, rubs small circles on the back of it.

Natasha goes to the sink in the corner, wets a wash cloth down completely in cold water, and wrings it out. She comes to the bed and carefully wipes Clint’s face down. He tracks her every movement as she approaches, but when she presses the cool cloth to his cheek, he lets out a deep breath, relaxes his grip on the blanket, and leans into the touch of the cloth with every stroke. Phil smiles and keeps rubbing Clint’s hand, watches Natasha’s face as it relaxes too, and savors this moment.

They are here, the three of them, and Clint will sleep again, he will wake screaming again at some point, and Phil and Natasha will be there to calm him, for eternity if that’s what it takes, because that’s how the three of them have survived until now, and it works.

 

 

 


End file.
